


*attacks you cutely*

by nadia5803



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:54:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29359077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadia5803/pseuds/nadia5803
Summary: pasha makes a new friend
Kudos: 1





	*attacks you cutely*

He knew it was a risk to enter the nest at dusk. He did it anyway.

For the last week, he’d been slipping in through a door in the far back. It led directly to the stage, but it seemed rather unused by the inhabitants. Dust and cobwebs layered the hall connecting the outside to the interior, and it bothered him so much that he attempted to swat the cobwebs away the first few times. Keeping quiet in the wings of the stage was also an issue, with flyweights, debris, and tools littering the floor. It was a challenge not to trip, especially in the pitch darkness that was only cut through by the ghost light. 

His escapades to the stage were often brief and short-lived. He was either unable to work up the courage to investigate or was chased off by the plucky stage manager with a penchant for green. Today, however, he had come after the summer sun started to slip behind the mountains, an oversight he hoped wouldn’t result in disaster. He entered through the back yet again, slipped into the left wing, and immediately collided with a plank of wood that hadn’t been there the day before. 

Collapsing to the floor, he scrambled into a corner, narrowly avoiding the toppled wood. Then, hearing voices, he hurried into a shadowy corner, kneeling and groping in the darkness for his single stake. Feeling its absence on his side, he stifled a gasp when he realized it had rolled across the floor, far out of his reach. The voices grew coherent.

“Pasha, go check what that noise was, please.”

“Yes, Miss Veice.” Footsteps, and then:

“Crap. I’ve forgotten the pens. I’ll be right back. Stay here, alright? And don’t touch anything. Good boy.” The voice and footsteps faded into the distance.

Hoping that the other set of footsteps wouldn’t catch sight of him, he cowered in the corner, hiding underneath some old table. Somebody sniffed the air, stepped forward, flicked on a light, and noticed a stake. They walked over to survey it, eyes wide with childlike fear and fascination, and then caught the scent again.

He tried not to make a sound, but of course, the heightened senses of an Un-Dead always get you at the worst time. Bending over to pick up the stake, and stepping forward with total caution, was a vampire. It had every marking of one— the red eyes, pale skin, pointed ears— but this one wasn’t like those picture books full of capes, stakes, and bloodstains.

No, it was a child. A child dressed in all black, with huge circles of black makeup underneath its eyes. With stockings, shorts, and a blazer, it looked like a schoolboy he would see at the bus stop by his flat. 

“Who are you?” 

Christ, it even sounded like a child.

“You shouldn’t play with stakes, wee one,” he said, keeping his voice a hushed whisper. “Hand it over.”

The vampire sensed a game afoot, and smirked. “Why should I?” he asked, grinning and revealing a set of tiny fangs. “And you didn’t answer my first question, stranger.”

“I don’t have to answer to you.” He pulled his hand away from his face. “You should hand it over, because I’d rather you not get injured, hm?”

“I won’t get injured by some breather’s pathetic stake. I’m a powerful vampire.” The vampire stepped over the wooden plank and did a squat, staring at the trespasser with his wide-eyed gaze. “Are you English?”

He narrowed his eyes and turned away.  _ Always avoid a vampire’s gaze; they have skills of hypnotism _ . “Why?” 

The vampire continued to stare at him, and juggled the stake. “I’ve never met a real-life Englishman.” When he didn’t reply, the vampire continued with purposeful childhood naivete. “I’m Ukrainian.”

Now that the vampire had mentioned it, he had heard the traces of an Eastern accent. Shifting his position to a more comfortable one, he continued to avoid meeting the vampire’s gaze, but replied. “That’s nice.”

The vampire went quiet, eyeing the stake in their hands and then peering at the crucifixes the Englishman adorned. He was hungry, for sure. He hadn’t eaten since two nights before, and was a bit sick and dizzy as a result, weakened and absent of that juvenile swagger. But he also knew what Miss Veice and Miss Kleinnman had told him about folks with stakes and crucifixes, and relented with a sigh. “I’m not going to eat you, don’t worry.” Then, as the Englishman fumbled with his wooden crucifix: “It’s not worth it.”

The Englishman still didn’t speak as he tossed the crucifix over his shoulder. The vampire’s shoulders dropped and he sat on the floor, legs splayed. “But you should leave before Miss Veice sees you. She will snap you up--” He snapped his fingers in demonstration. “Like that.”

“So I’ve heard.” 

The vampire puffed out his cheeks and held up the sharpened stake. He held it to his face, dangerously close, observing it through squinted eyes. Then, bothered by the narrow window of vampire child murder that presented itself to him, the Englishman leaned forward and wrestled it away from him, scrambling to his feet. “Don’t play with that.”

“I wasn’t. I was looking at it,” the vampire retorted, arms crossed in indignation. “I’ve never met a real vampire hunter before.” Then, eyes glowing: “Will you kill me?”

The Englishman tried to make it seem as if he debated that question, although he’d already come to his answer. “No. As long as you don’t rat me out to Miss Veice.”

“I don’t like making compromises with breathers,” the vampire said, placing his hands on his hips. “But I suppose if you don’t murder me, then it’s a fair trade.”

With a cocked eyebrow and a disbelieving scoff, the Englishman held out the sharpened tip of the stake. “What’s your name, wee one?”

Staring down the stake with a mix of elation and terror, the vampire gaped. “The Well-Born Pavel Ossipovich Udovenko, Baron of Pridestnovie.” Then, seeing as the Englishman seemed utterly mystified by that string of letters, he continued. “But known to all as Pasha Ossipovich. What’s your name, sir? What’s your purpose here?” Pasha lifted a finger to touch the tip of the stake, then instantly pulled it away, blowing on his finger in a panic. “That hurt, actually!”   
  
“Holy water,” the Englishman mumbled, shoving the stake back into his belt. “I told you not to play with it. Sorry.”

“In my day, you would have your head chopped off for that,” Pasha snapped, gazing at the scar that had formed on his fingertip. “But this is modern times, so I suppose I won’t call for your execution.” 

The Englishman pushed up his sunglasses. “How old are you?”   
  
“Are you playing a game?” Pasha asked, getting to his feet with a groan. 

“Only if you want to. Fancy a game of 20 questions?” 

“I’m not a fan of boring games like that. I was thinking more along the lines of checkers. Or chess. Or tag. Or Twister.” Pasha stuck his injured finger in his mouth and peered at the Englishman. “If playing your stupid, boring, dumb game gets you to leave, though, I’ll play.” 

“Fine. I’ll begin,” the Englishman said. “How old are you?”   
  
“That’s not how 20 questions is played, idiot.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Fine. This is a game of small-talk, then.”   
  
“I’ve never heard of it.”   
  
“That’s because I just invented it. How old are you, wee one?”   
  
“I am 117 years old,” Pasha announced proudly. 

“Good. Now, you ask me a question,” the Englishman directed, placing his hands on his hips and offering the faintest of smiles.

“Hmm…” Pasha tapped his chin and gazed at the ceiling in deep thought. “How old are  _ you _ ?”

“I’m 32 years old.”

“Wow, you’re tiny! I’m older than your grandparents,” the vampire jeered.

“Certainly. Alright, what was your age when you were turned?”

“Seventeen,” Pasha said, squeezing his round cheeks, still plump and unchanged with permanent youth. “But you could have guessed that already. How… who… Why are you here?”   
  


“You’re not allowed to ask me that.”   
  
Indignant, Pasha threw up his arms. “That’s not fair!”

The Englishman shrugged. “Another one.”

“What’s your name?” the vampire demanded, growing frustrated with the guest. “And, do you have any titles? Own any land? Are you a nobleman of your homeland?”

With a sigh, the Englishman crouched to Pasha’s height. “My name’s unimportant. My title is  _ Student Physician _ , and I am no nobleman.” 

“Student Physician Englishman,” Pasha declared. “You know, it doesn’t roll off the tongue so well.”

“Neither does Pavel-Ossipovich-Udenvanko-Baron-Ukraine-Whatever,” he snapped back.

“How dare you! Now, your head would be  _ really _ severed from your body,” Pasha hissed, sticking a scornful finger in the Englishman’s face. “You should treat your higher-ups, and your elders, with much more respect, young breather. I tire of you. Begone!” he declared with a flick of the hand.

The Englishman did not  _ begone  _ himself. He stood there in relative indifference. Pasha hissed in frustration and waved his hand. “Begone, breather! Ugh! This usually works,” he mumbled, glaring at the Englishman. 

  
“Guess I’m much too powerful for your juvenile skills,” he replied smugly.

  
“How  _ dare  _ you?” Florid with rage, Pasha’s eyes flashed and he took a step back, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Miss Veice!” he shouted. “Miss Veice, come quick!” 

“Shit, shit, shit. Stupid kid!” The Englishman scrambled from his hiding spot as a pair of hurried heels clicked into the wing, dropping their pens as they realized who was trespassing. 

“You  _ again _ !” Edel snarled, levitating off the ground in a rush. “Pasha, get out of here, before I eat this gentleman alive.” Turning to the Englishman with bared teeth, Edel took a threatening step forward. “Darling Sujani won’t save you this time.” 

The Englishman streaked towards the door, fumbling with the knob and struggling for his wooden crucifix simultaneously. As Edel approached him, arms outstretched, he tore the crucifix off his neck and held it up to her face as a few beads clattered to the ground. “Get  _ away _ !”

Edel recoiled as he shot down the hall, flinging the stage door opening and scrambling out of the alleyway in a panic. Tittering down the hall, Edel watched as he vanished around the corner and shrugged her shoulders. “Stupid breathers.”

Pasha stood in the doorway, wearing a pout. Edel frowned and cupped his face, bending to Pasha’s height. “Did the mean man hurt you, dear?”

“A little,” Pasha said, holding up his scarred finger.

“Mmph. Sorry, darling,” Edel mumbled, giving Pasha a kiss on the finger. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t come back next time.”

“Thank you, Miss Veice,” Pasha replied innocently, bending to pick over some of the pens she had dropped. 

She ruffled his hair and set the scripts down on the table. “Now that there’s no present threat, let’s start character work, hm?”


End file.
